Beat the Band (2 page)

The papers make a rustling sound as Mrs. Turris unfolds them. “Andrew Bennett and Nicholas Hickey,” she reads.

All the kids in the classroom snicker.

Andy winces.

Nicky’s head drops.

Class assbag meet Cabbage Boy. Sometimes there
is
justice in the world.

I can breathe again. The first pairing has been decided, and already two of the biggest booby prizes have been awarded. And to each other. Which is classic.

The only thing you have to know about Andy Bennett — besides the fact that he’s been desperately trying to grow a mustache for the last two years — is that he likes to spit Jell-O cubes at all the babes and can’t understand why this move doesn’t make them lie down naked at his feet.

And Nicky Hickey? Smells. Bad. Real bad. Like brussels sprouts rolled in fish food. He might not even be such a terrible guy, but you just can’t hang with him long enough to find out.

Me, Matt, and Sean share a thank-holy-Jesus look.

Mrs. Turris brushes a curly blond lock from her forehead. “The topic you will be researching and teaching a lesson on will be . . .” She grabs the nearby yellow shoebox and blindly plucks an index card from it. Drum roll please. “Alcohol.”

“I did a few pints of research on that very subject this past weekend,” Andy quips, running his hand down the baby beard he’s sprouting on his chin.

One person sniggers in the back corner, but really, nobody wants to encourage him.

Mrs. Turris ignores Andy’s comment and continues reading the card. “Its effects on the body. Consequences of driving under the influence. Alcohol addiction. Et cetera.”

Personally, I don’t give two turds what subject I get. But I
have
to get a cool partner. Everything else is dealable.

Mrs. Turris dips her paw back into the blue shoebox and draws two more names.

“Sean Hance and Matthew Gratton.”

Matt and Sean fist bump. The bastards.

They both turn to me and make apologetic faces. I give them a shit-happens shrug, ’cause what else am I supposed to do? Threaten to ignore the food pyramid and eat a crap diet until Mrs. Turris pairs me up with one of them? As if I’ve ever eaten “heart healthy” in my life.

It would have been stagg to work with Matt. We would have had a ton of laughs and maybe even gotten a decent grade, ’cause Matt’s actually pretty smart.

I wouldn’t even have minded Sean. I mean, sure, we’d have barely passed, but at least we’re friends and neither of us smells like anus.

Mrs. Turris scratches hard at her pad, trying to get the ink running in her pen so she can write down their names.

I take a breath. No need to panic. Everything’s chill here. I’d rather get one of the lovely ladies anyway.

I lean over to Prudence Nash — her soft brown hair framing her Victoria’s-Secret-model face — and shoot her my irresistible, whadda-ya-say grin. “Looks like our odds just got a little better, huh?” I whisper.

“For what?” Prudence says, staring straight ahead. “A reason to commit suicide?”

“For you and me, babe. That is, if your luck holds.” I give her a sly head tilt as Mrs. Turris rummages in her drawer for a new writing implement. “Who knows? Maybe we’ll be assigned the
Kama Sutra
. We can demonstrate the seventy-two most pleasurable lovemaking positions. What do you think about that?”

Prudence flips me the middle finger. Still not looking in my direction.

“Mee-ouch. You do know that’s how the deaf talk dirty to each other.”

Prudence whips around and gives me the slow burn.

“And your topic is,” Mrs. Turris says, finally ready to reveal Matt’s and Sean’s fate. “Sexually transmitted diseases. STDs. Contraction, prevention, and treatment.”

Matt’s and Sean’s life-is-great expressions suddenly sour. Pube lice and penile scabbing. Not exactly a car for Christmas, is it, fellas?

My cheeks start to tug a smile, but I wrest control.

Mrs. Turris scribbles the topic down, then grabs two more names.

“Gina Lagotta and Kelly West,” she calls out.

Jesus Christ. Two more of my prospects paired up with each other. I don’t like how this is shaking out.

Okay, just stay positive. There’s still Bodacious Bronte and Primo Prudence.

I smile at Prudence to let her know she’s still my number one. Waggle the eyebrows. “The plot thickens.”

Prudence’s hand rockets into the air. “Mrs. Turris?”

“Yes, Prudence,” Mrs. Turris says, her sausage-fingers hovering over the yellow shoebox.

“I’m not feeling well. May I go to the nurse?”

“What seems to be the problem?”

“I just got
really
nauseous.”

“How about you wait until we see who your partner is, so you two can schedule a time to meet. Then you can go to the nurse.”

Prudence huffs and crosses her arms.

“Kelly and Gina, the subject of your lesson will be . . .” Mrs. Turris pulls an index card. She’s having way too much fun with this. “Nutrition. What constitutes a healthy diet? Effects of an unhealthy one. How to read a nutrition label. And the like.”

I scan the room to assess the situation. Beyond the two choice babes left, all the other potentials are bottom-feeders at best. I suppose I could deal with most of them if I absolutely
had
to. Anyone except Justin “Stoned Senseless” Sneep. I’d end up having to do all the work, which would be a giant sack of blowage.

Come to think of it, if I wind up working with Prudence or Bronte, I’ll probably have to do the whole project myself as well. Although, if they’d be willing to work out an appropriate barter system, it might not be so bad.

Still, I think I should have a plan B. So I’m not completely devastated if I lose out on my first tier of partners. Preferably someone who’s so concerned about being paired with me and my slothful ways that they’ll take up the lion’s share. Someone who’s too nice to get mad at me. Someone like . . .

“Sam Shattenkirk,” Mrs. Turris reads, fumbling with the folded second slip.

Yes! Smart, clean, friendly, non-threatening Sam. He’s my backup man. My backup plan. A lightness fills my chest. A flicker of hope. Come to Cooper. Come on. Cooper Redmond. Cooper Redmond.

“And . . .” She gets the paper unfolded and reads. “Prudence Nash.”

Damn it. It’s like I’m sinking in quicksand and all my lifelines keep snapping.

Mrs. Turris smiles at Prudence. “There you go, dear. You can go see the nurse now.”

“That’s okay,” Prudence says, tossing me a screw-you smirk. “I feel
much
better.”

I wink at her to let her know I understand she’s disappointed.

Prudence rolls her eyes.

It’s the dance we do. Like birds before they mate. She hates me now, but someday soon, at some party or something, she’ll succumb to the Cooper charm, and we’ll fall into each other’s arms, making out like a couple of horny cave people. We’ll retreat to one of the bedrooms and chew and claw each other’s clothes off. And then, finally, I’ll get a full view of the serpent tattoo that snakes down the small of her back. The one I’ve only gotten teasing glances of when she squats to pick something up off the floor and her low-rise jeans ride just a little lower.

Mrs. Turris reads out Sam’s and Prudence’s topic but it doesn’t register. I’m still stuck on Prudence’s tattoo. I’m imagining what it will be like to spend the rest of my life examining every inch of it.

“This is so exciting.” Mrs. Turris laughs. She’s got the kind of round, trusting face you’d see on a pancake box. “I love placing things in Fate’s hands. It always turns out for the best in the end, I think.”

Okay, I may yurp.

I sigh loudly. Several of my comrades stifle chuckles.

Mrs. Turris pays no attention and grabs another slip of paper from her torture box.

I’ve pretty much given up trying to will the outcome of this. My Jedi mind control is obviously on the fritz today. I don’t even care who I get twinned up with anymore. Like it even matters. It’s just stupid Health. Sure I need to pass to graduate, but how hard is it going to be to swing a D-plus? Really. I’ll even take Stoner Sneep. Bring it on. Give me the worst you’ve got, Mrs. Turris. Give me boogers-in-the-nose Gerald Tyrell. Toss me Tara ten-chins with the wandering eye and steel-wool mullet.

I breeze cheese in Fate’s face. How do you like that, teach?

“Cooper Redmond . . .”

Here we go, people. I maintain my chillaxed pose: slouching posture, one arm dangling carelessly over the back of my chair.

Mrs. Turris does an on-purpose, anticipation-inducing, Academy Awards-y delay.

Whatever. Let her have her fun.

Nothing can faze me at this point.

“And Helen Harriwick.”

Except.

Maybe.

That.

The class bursts with laughter.

Hot Dog Helen? Are you twisting me? I hadn’t even considered this. I didn’t even notice she was in the class. She makes herself that invisible.

My skin prickles with heat and my head swims, but I keep my face blank. Need to be caszh. Can’t appear weak.

But come on! Jesus Christ!

Prudence has her hand clasped over her mouth. Her eyes dart over to me and they are filled with evil glee.

Matt and Sean have matching “yikes” expressions plastered on their mugs. They’re trying to be all sympathetic, but I can see both of them stifling laughs.

I turn around and find Helen, who’s skim-milk skin has gone blotchy with clouds of pink. She is staring hard at her Health textbook, pretending the hysteria has nothing to do with the fact that she’s the school’s most taunted pariah.

Thanks a ton, Mrs. Turris. Fate can eat me. There is
no way
this is “for the best.”

Okay. I need to breathe. To think. How can I get out of this? There has to be a way. I just need to concentrate.

Maybe Jell-O hawkin’ Andy would be willing to flip stinky Nicky. But as soon as I think this, I see the mirthful tears coursing down his cheeks and I already know he’d never go for it.

Nothing could be worse than this.

Absolutely nothing.

“And your topic shall be . . .” Mrs. Turris announces like a judge handing down a life sentence. She has suddenly grown thirty feet tall, sprouted horns, and is engulfed in flames. Her voice is distorted and timpani-low as she reads my conviction. “Contraaaaceptioooon.”

The room erupts in a nuclear explosion of whoops and howls. Gina and Kelly actually do a double fist bump, exploding their nugs in celebration.

I try to keep calm but my head is still spinning.

I swear I see Mrs. Turris look up to the heavens and cackle.

“The various forms of, including condoms, the pill, and diaphragm. Cost, reliability, effectiveness, ease of use . . .”

The desks, the chalkboard, the windows, the laughing mouths of Kelly, Bronte, Prudence, and Gina all swirl around me. I can only catch snippets of their jeers: “field research . . .”, “Corn Dog Coop . . .”, “Put some
condom
-ments on that wiener. . . .”

The last thing I see is Helen, books clutched to her chest, fleeing the classroom.

And then the darkness collapses around me, and right before the world disappears, I hear Andy’s voice calling out, “Theebedda — theebedda — theebedda — that’s all folks!”

“THAT WAS TOTALLY AWESOME,”
Sean says as we wait in the cafeteria line. “I’ve never seen anyone faint before. What was it like?”

“I didn’t faint,” I correct. “I just got dizzy for a second.”

“Are you sure you’re feeling okay?” Matt asks. “You still look sort of . . . pale.”

“I’m fine. I just need some food. I haven’t eaten much since lunch yesterday.” Which is the truth. Mom was working late again, so dinner was a fend-for-yourself affair — which meant Pop-Tarts for
moi
— and I traded breakfast for three slaps at the snooze button.

“Uh-huh.” Sean chortles. “That’s funny. I thought you nearly fell out of your chair because you got stuck with Oscar Mayer Helen.”

“Don’t be such a tool, Sean,” I say under my breath. “She’s right there.” Or at least, I think she is. At the front of the line. But I might be wrong. The lunchroom is crammed with bodies and faces, none of which I can bring into sharp focus.

“Like you never make fun of her,” Sean says.

“Not when she can hear me, butt-wipe.” My stomach is creaking doors. I grab a lukewarm, foil-wrapped donkey burger, a chocolate chip cookie, and an apple juice, and plunk them down on my green tray. The thick smell of the cafeteria — salami, pizza squares, and lunch lady BO — is not the fresh air I need to clear my head. “Christ. That circus in Health class today. I mean,
I
can take it. But what they were saying about Helen. That was some of the cruelest shit I’ve ever heard.”

“Wasn’t me,” Matt says, sliding a chicken-finger-and-french-fry boat onto his tray.

Sean says nothing, just pretends to be studying today’s chow choices, which can lead to only one conclusion: he joined in on the verbal stoning.

He can’t help it. Sean’s a lemming sometimes. But he can also be a throw-himself-on-the-grenade-for-you friend, which are few and far between.

We pay for our meals and take up residence at the end of one of the metal-and-plastic picnic tables.